by Geneva Lee
It was how they broke people.
It was how he’d been trained to break people.
They seemed to have forgotten that very important point. Whatever tactic they’d tried next would be equally transparent.
Then again, maybe that was the point. Sometimes, wasting time was simply that. The more time he spent trying to figure out what they were up to, the more time they had to enact whatever scheme they’d been plotting.
He hadn’t wanted to believe that it would all come back to this. He’d chosen to turn a blind eye to them and his own past. That was a mistake that would cost him. He could only hope it wouldn’t cost the ones he loved most as well.
So, he’d waited until it looked like he was under, then he’d carefully regulated his heart rate enough that it did register while he broke the fingers in his right hand—all while pretending to be under sedation.
Someone had forgotten that he’d been trained to withstand most sedatives. Or maybe that they thought that was a skill he’d long forgotten. That mistake was going to cost them.
He hated resorting to his dominant hand, especially since he’d compromised his other earlier, but this was more important.
He needed to get out. He needed to find Alexander and tell him what he suspected. It was the only way Clara would be found. It was her only chance. He owed them that. He owed his true family that.
When his hand finally slipped free, he paused to consider his next steps. He had moments before the alarm went off, once he detached the monitors. That meant he had to be ready for action. He undid his other restraint and pulled the blanket over his mangled hands to hide the truth. He couldn’t act. Not yet.
It was a frustrating truth that sometimes, even when time was running out, you had to wait for the right moment to strike.
Chapter 11
ALEXANDER
I’d promised myself that if I ever saw Oliver Jacobson as a free man, I would kill him on the spot. Now, as we made our way to Knightsbridge, I wondered if that was still an option. Oliver Jacobson might prove a valuable source of information if he ever bothered to speak in a language that wasn’t riddles. In the time we kept him in custody, he hadn’t given us anything other than vague threats and innuendo. But he knew more than he let on. That had become apparent to me when, while sitting in a cell, he’d admitted to the Child Watch attack. He hadn’t been involved, but he’d still known it happened. Since I’d made certain he didn’t so much as know the outcome of the latest Arsenal match, it was a surprise.
He knew what they were planning then, and I ventured to guess he knew what was going on now. But Jacobson wasn’t going to roll over.
“He won’t tell us anything,” I said to my companion, voicing my thoughts.
“Leave that to me.” Smith’s eyes stayed on the road as he darted around bold tourists and slow cab drivers.
I appreciated his confidence, even if I didn’t share it. “If he was going to crack, he would have used it to get out of prison.”
“Face it, Alexander,” Smith muttered, narrowly missing a lorry. “He didn’t need the leverage. Whoever is behind this—truly behind this—got him out. He didn’t talk, because he didn’t have to talk.”
“Why would he talk now?” I muttered.
“I can be persuasive,” Smith promised darkly.
I had no doubt about that, but given my past with Jacobson there were other considerations. “I can’t exactly walk into his house and beat the shit out of him. No matter how much I might like to.”
“You aren’t the only one. Trust me. But there are more persuasive methods to break a man than physical violence.”
“But physical violence is the most satisfying,” I grumbled. Jacobson deserved it. He’d been an integral part of the plan that had ended in my father’s death. “He texted me, you know.”
“He did?” Smith sounded surprised.
I hadn’t shared this bit with anyone until now, and I wasn’t exactly sure why. There had been important matters to consider than a vague text. I’d just discovered my wife wasn’t at home. I’d just begun to panic.
My nightmare had only been beginning.
“The night she disappeared. It said ‘from within.’” My hands clenched into fists as I recalled the dawning horror of that moment.
Smith shot me a quizzical look. “From within? What does that mean?”
“He said it to me once. He told me that the way to destroy the royal family was from within.” I hadn’t known what he meant then, but Jacobson had been right. Ripping Clara from me meant I would do anything, give up anything, to get her back. I would break any law. I would hurt, torture, kill—whatever it took to bring her safely home.
If I had to I would burn this city to the ground.
“You think that means taking Clara?” Smith asked.
“What else could it mean?” I watched him for a moment aware of how carefully he arranged his features. But he couldn’t hide the darkness in his eyes. I knew that look. Something had sparked, turning the wheels in his mind, and whatever he was thinking, he wasn’t sure if he should share it.
“Maybe nothing,” Smith said.
“I don’t have a lot else to go on,” I admitted. Two days and nothing more than a bit of gossip from London’s most in-the-know gangster wasn’t getting us far. We had theories. Insane theories. But what I wanted was something tangible—something I could wrap my mind around.
“I need to talk to Georgia.” Smith was stalling, but why?
“Tell me,” I demanded.
Smith slowed the Bugatti as we came to a traffic light, but despite the stop, he didn’t turn to face me. “I understand wanting something to go on, but I need to speak with her. It was something she said.”
“I could order you to tell me,” I warned him. I would, too. Whatever tentative alliance we’d formed, however much I’d begun to respect Smith Price, I would do whatever I had to do to get answers.
Smith smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Order me?”
“I am the King.” I felt like a dick for playing that card, but it had to count for something.
“You aren’t my king. I’m Scottish. You’ll find my family’s roots in the Jacobite rebellion,” he informed me. There was a slight grin on his face as if he’d been granted a wish.
“Been waiting a long time to say that to me?” I asked.
“Nah, but I imagine my ancestors would be proud all the same.” The light turned and he continued into the exclusive neighbourhood where Oliver Jacobson, supposed man of the people, lived. “Look. I don’t want to turn this into a witch hunt. There’s following a lead and there’s causing trouble. We don’t have time for trouble.”
I couldn’t argue with him there. We were running out of time. Clara was due in a few weeks, but the truth was that the baby could come at any time. Not knowing where she was or what was happening to her was driving me crazy. But that wasn’t the most important thing. Clara’s job was to protect the baby and I knew she would. It was my job to look after her, protect her, support her—and she needed me more than ever. “I only hope Norris is with her.”
It was a vain hope. I couldn’t imagine anyone taking Norris alive, even if part of me wanted to because the alternative was too much to bear.
“Have you ever considered—truly considered—that Norris might not—”
“I trust Norris with everything, especially my wife,” I cut him off, knowing where he was going with this.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about Norris,” Smith pointed out.
I could understand why he felt that way. I had it on good authority that his own man had betrayed him to Hammond a few years ago. But this was different. Norris was different.
“He’s my family, and while we may be a fucked up bunch, I trust my family. We look out for one another. We have to,” I said, my voice vibrated with suppressed annoyance. Considering Norris a suspect was a waste of time. Perhaps Smith had never known true loyalty.
Smith pulled into a vacant spac
e in front of a row of houses and remained silent. If he had more to say on the subject, he wasn’t going to share. That was good because I wasn’t interested in hearing it.
“Did you bring an entourage?” Smith asked, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror.
Swiveling in my seat, I turned to discover two black Aston Martins behind us. One slid into a vacant spot, the other pulled up beside the passenger window.
“I didn’t,” I said in a low voice. These weren’t our men, but we both recognised a security team when we saw it.
It made sense that Jacobson would increase security. Public opinion regarding his alleged participation in my father’s assassination was mixed. Some people didn’t believe it. Others wrote it off as the nasty business of politics. But there were a fair few that believed he was a traitor. I was one of them. Even amongst those that didn’t support the monarchy there was a fair bit of horror over the allegations. It seemed whether you supported king or not, nearly everyone supported country—and the attack had been against everything Great Britain stood for.
Parliament’s initial outrage over his arrest and incarceration had cooled once the matter had become a matter for public opinion. Most members had remained tight-lipped regarding the matter with very few voicing support for their colleague.
“Should I handle this?”
I blinked at Smith’s question. It took me a moment to see things from his perspective. He had stepped into the role of bodyguard albeit begrudgingly. Norris would usually have handled this. It was part of our unspoken arrangement. Smith and I on the other hand weren’t exactly friends, and I wasn’t exactly his employer. Our relationship was something different entirely. He now fell into the category of fucked up family I’d been defending moments earlier.
That didn’t make it his job to handle things now.
“We might as well do it together,” I muttered, opening my car door before he could protest, but Smith didn’t.
Instead he tossed me a pair of aviators. “A little extra camouflage in case we’ve attracted any prying eyes.”
He respected my decisions in a way most members of my team didn’t. He was also far less likely to take a bullet for me. In my opinion, it was the perfect balance.
Stepping out of the Bugatti, I slipped the sunglasses on, knowing that between the stubble I’d been ignoring and my t-shirt and jeans I didn’t look much like myself. Then again, reporters had a long memory. Only a few years ago, I’d looked like this often. Back when I’d first met Clara. Back when we’d moved into our place in Notting Hill. Back when our life felt impossible. A lot had changed.
A man had gotten out of each car, but left the engine running. The one closest to me inclined his head. “Your Majesty.”
Jacobson might not respect me but his men did.
“You can tell him that we’re here. I’m unarmed.” I still hadn’t bothered to get a gun despite my conversation with Smith. He was right. It would be necessary. For now, though, I was telling the truth. I shoved my hands in my pocket and waited.
The man glanced to the row of white houses behind us. “We don’t represent Jacobson.”
“Then we don’t have any business,” Smith said, stepping next to me. Unlike me, he’d found the time to use a razor and change into a suit. He looked every bit the part of a lawyer. I wondered if that was purposeful. In a way it was his own disguise, hiding the wild streak in him under a coat of civility.
“Our employers would like you to reconsider speaking with Jacobson,” the man continued.
“You’ll find I don’t take well to orders.” It was a hazard of being a king. I didn’t appreciate being told what to do.
“Consider it a request from friends.”
Smith and I looked to one another considering this so-called request. There weren’t many people who would have the balls to surround men like us and ask a favour. That fact alone was worth considering. Another time that might have been enough, but each moment I spent not knowing where my wife was a second less than I would show those who took her.
“Unfortunately, gentleman, this is a matter of national security,” I said calmly, taking a step away from the car. It was only then I realized that another man had circled round us to wait on the sidewalk.
“As is this,” the man assured us. “You won’t find the answers you’re looking for from Oliver Jacobson. He’s been effectively isolated.”
I sucked in a breath as I felt that door slam shut. It had always been a long shot to get Jacobson to talk, but it had been our most promising option. We knew he was involved, even if it wasn’t clear how much he actually knew about the plan. If these people had cut him off from the others involved with Clara’s disappearance, they would pay for it. “On whose orders?”
I wanted to know who had cocked this up so magnificently. When Jacobson had been freed, we’d watched him closely for any signs he was in contact with others. But there’d been no activity. I’d thought it was a play to look innocent. Now that I knew the truth, I realized someone had been manipulating the situation.
“They don’t have a name, but they are friends. For now,” he added ominously.
That cleared it up. There was only one group who had their fingers on the pulse of this situation who would dare to step in. I’d been avoiding seeking their help.
Smith stiffened next to me, the only sign that any of this had shaken him.
“They would like to speak with you, if you would be so kind as to follow us.” He didn’t wait for a response instead, he circled around the black saloon and slid in.
We waited until the other did the same. They had us blocked in for the moment, but that didn’t mean either of us would blindly follow.
“This could be a trap,” Smith said instantly.
“I know.” I ran a hand through my hair, wondering how to process all the information left unspoken during this exchange. “It’s the Ghosts.”
“That seems obvious, but…” he trailed away, and I knew what he wasn’t saying.
Too obvious? Whoever was behind Clara’s disappearance would know about the Council of Ghosts, the shadowy group that decided when a monarch needed to be deposed. They knew that any king would fear them. But I wasn’t any king and I had nothing left to lose.
“If it’s a trick, they’ll lead us to answers,” I argued. Possibly to wherever they kept Clara.
“Or they’ll put a bullet in your brain,” Smith said, shaking his head. “It’s a risk. Why would the Council be involved with Jacobson? Or any of this?”
I smirked despite myself. That I understood without doubt. “It’s all ego. Another party stepped into their territory. Whoever killed my father crossed a line.”
Smith looked looked to number 414. The house Jacobson called home was innocuous, blending in to its surroundings just as he had, even if it was a bit too high brow for a man who railed against the aristocracy. “He’s not the one we’re after.”
It was a realization that stung. We both had good reason for wanting to see Jacobson dead. He’d threatened the our families. He’d pulled strings and ruined lives. Did it matter if he wasn’t the one in charge? He was responsible for causing our loved ones pain. He had tried to take our wives from us. “He doesn’t deserve to live.”
“He doesn’t deserve to die by a king’s hand, either. That’s too good a death for him. He’ll think it means he was right. He should waste away,” Smith said in a hollow voice. “Let him rot until everyone sees him for what he truly is.”
“And them?” I asked, tipping my head to the cars idling around us.
“They might have answers,” he said.
We both knew they might not. The possibility was all that mattered. We’d been grasping at shadows for days, so why not go to see the ghosts? I reached for the door handle and nodded. “It’s worth it if they do.”
“And if they don’t?” Smith called as he went to the driver’s side.
I didn’t answer him. With each shut door and dead end, I felt further from Clara. She
was my light. Maybe I was desperately seeking some new source of hope to tap, but I was a man caught in a labyrinth and with each failure, I learned something. Eventually, the path would be clear. I had to believe that.
I had no other choice.
It wasn’t a surprise when we were led to White’s, but it did dispel the tension lingering in the car. This was where we’d met the council last time. Smith had been with me. I felt a hollow pang remembering Norris by my side as well. I wished he was here now, guiding me. Because even if all signs pointed to the legitimacy of this meeting, I couldn’t ignore that this was a group of men who held the power of life and death over me.
Smith shot the valet a terrifying look when he held his hand out for the keys. “Worth more than your life.”
The younger man’s eyes widened and he nodded.
“You have a way with people,” I muttered as we made our way inside. I’d kept the sunglasses on for good measure. My brother had just announced the news of our grandmother’s death and that my wife was on bed rest. I didn’t know how it would look to be seen going into a club.
“He didn’t take one look at you,” Smith said smoothly as we waited for the doorman. “No one did. You’re welcome.”
I snorted, only half believing that his little show had anything to do with me and everything to do with the multi-million dollar car he’d just entrusted to some pipsqueak.
Once, we were inside, we could both relax. A little. White’s was a notoriously elitist club, which meant that no one here would risk their membership for a bit of gossip. The porter at the desk recognised me from our last disastrous encounter and waved us in without comment.
“I thought they might require a blood sample this time,” Smith said flatly as we climbed the stairs. “Spent much time here in your youth?”
“My father had his man run here as soon as I was born and proved genetically entitled,” I told him. “A decision I’m sure he regretted since he never once asked me to come along, and I never bothered to come on my own. Not my type of place.”